


and the angels

by evisceral



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Devil May Cry (Game), Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evisceral/pseuds/evisceral
Summary: He let out a roar as he swung his greatsword in a heavy downward arc — weight was all wrong, too heavy, too slow, no grace — and watched as his target dodged out of its way before delivering a swift stab to his side.Damn. He couldn't fail again. He couldn'tloseagain. It was forbidden, unpermissible, bore consequences bathed in blood and agony and an all-encompassing emptiness. Not again.I will not lose to you again.Again.Again?





	and the angels

**Author's Note:**

> an alternate sort of way for the final battle between Dante and Nelo Angelo in DMC1 to end. 
> 
> can't believe I've been in this fandom for 15 years, and this is the first fic I've written for it.

**Your name will be...**

The clash of metal on metal should have been a deafening sound, should have echoed in his ears and set a ringing through his skull. Instead, it was dulled, as if heard through a layer of static, or the bottom of a deep, endless ocean. A voice in the back of his mind laughed, the words that followed unintelligible. It was a familiar voice, one he knew, one that sang deep within his bones — it did not matter. It did not matter. It did not matter.

He knew the voice because he had heard it earlier in the day. That was all. 

He knew the voice because its owner was at the other end of his sword, parrying each of his strikes and returning each blow. 

That was why he knew the voice.

**Behold: you are set free.**

He let out a roar as he swung his greatsword in a heavy downward arc — weight was all wrong, too heavy, too slow, no grace — and watched as his target dodged out of its way before delivering a swift stab to his side. _Damn_. He couldn't fail again. He couldn't _lose_ again. It was forbidden, unpermissible, bore consequences bathed in blood and agony and an all-encompassing emptiness. Not again.

_I will not lose to you again._

Again. 

_Again?_

—right. Because he'd already lost twice, been returned to kneel before Mundus emptyhanded, instructed not to return a third time unless he'd accomplished his task. He would do it. He could do it. There would be no need to be returned to that empty place, to lose once again.

He gestured with a hand and watched as spectral swords appeared, floating in midair for just a moment before flying at his adversary. He watched as eyes went wide, as one of the swords pierced into the target's chest — _too slow_ — before dodging away from the rest of them, shattering the last one with his own sword. 

"You..." The voice was quiet, confusion written across the face, a hand gripping the glowing sword even as it vanished. The target shook his head, squared his stance. "Never mind. C'mon, you zombie. Let's go."

Very well.

He charged in as bidden, the first blow blocked but second resulting in a gash across his prey's shoulder — and grunted as a swing he should have expected caught the side of his head, the blade lodging under one of the horns of his helmet. He felt it follow the sword's momentum as he crashed off to the side, staggering across the floor until his shoulder met the wall. It took a moment to regain his bearings, to open his eyes, to understand why the ringing in his head was so _loud_. One gauntleted hand came up to rub at his temple, and he started at the feel of cool metal against his skin.

His skin.

His _helmet_.

There was a _clang_ as something hit the ground, somewhere far away and drawing his gaze; he watched as his helmet skittered along the ground, the sound almost painful as it echoed through his skull. _No_. He needed that to protect him, needed it to be—

**My Angelo.**

" _Vergil_."

His head whipped back toward his foe, immediately ready to parry an attack — and faltered. The amulet had fallen out of his collar again, a look of... _something_ painted across his face. What was that in his voice? So familiar, so loud, like a thousand screams ripped from his throat. 

_Who was Vergil?_

**Nelo Angelo.**

Did it matter?

The tip of his sword was resting against the ground, his stance open.

It didn't matter.

It was an opportunity.

Another wave of his hand and more swords appeared, catching his opponent by surprise as they pierced through his back. He took the opportunity to rush forward, greatsword held out and shattering the other swords as it sank into and through his target's chest. He didn't stop, though, kept pushing and pushing until the tip of his blade pressed into the stone of the opposite wall. A spray of blood coated his face as the man coughed, red dribbling down his chin and throat.

Finally. _Finally_. He'd won.

"Sorry, Verge."

_What?_

A laugh, then, more red bubbling from the back of his throat. His sword clattered to the floor as he dropped it.

What was he doing? Why was he _laughing?_ He'd lost. This was no laughing matter. Did he not understand the ramifications of his loss? What would happen once he was brought before Mundus?

A shock ran through him as hands touched his cheeks, sticky with blood but warm, so warm. Nonsensically, the man smiled.

"If I'd known this was what was gonna happen, I would've jumped after you." 

_Jumped?_

The smile fell, and finally, a word bubbled to the increasingly turbulent surface of his thoughts. There was a name for the expression on the man's face, and the Angelo knew now to call it grief. His eyes widened as thumbs brushed across his cheeks, and suddenly he was falling. He was falling, and staring into these same eyes, blood falling after him from a cut across a palm. He was there, and here, and suspended between two immense hands, and screaming as the core of him was burned away—

He roared as he shoved himself backwards, away from the greatsword, away from— those hands, always grasping, always seeking. _Him_. Always chasing after _him_. He knew those hands, that face, that voice. An uneven cobblestone knocked him off his balance, and he fell once more, his hands clasped to the sides of his head as he screamed.

_I remember._

**Disgraceful.**

The Angelo didn't see it as his prey pushed away from the wall, pulled the sword out of his chest. Didn't look up as footsteps approached, chest heaving as his mind reeled. His breath became a ragged thing, struggling to pull any air into his lungs as knees and then a body fell into his line of sight, and he didn't fight it as arms circled his shoulders, pulled him close. 

This wasn't prey. This was—

"Sorry I'm late, big brother." 

He was _so warm_ , even without the blood coating his chest from a wound that was already healed. A hand found its way into the Angelo's hair, impossibly gentle as it patted him, before both hand and body receded. He wanted to follow after, wanted to chase that familiarity, that warmth — and could do nothing as freezing cold seeped back through his limbs, locking them in place. _No_. His Master knew, already. Had he been watching? His already troubled breathing hitched as a sharp pain blossomed across his back, his torso, and he watched as the tip of a sword pushed through the armor protecting his chest.

This time, it was his own blood that bubbled over his chin, and he looked up as his brother circled back around in front of him. Hands cupped his cheeks again, and a terrible attempt at a smile crossed his face.

"I'll fix this, Verge. Gotta make it look real, but— I'll fix this. I'll kick his ass. We're gonna go home."

He coughed again. He wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe so badly. 

"Stay here, okay? I'll come back for you. I swear it."

**Pathetic.**

_No._

A ragged sound escaped his throat as the sword was pulled clear of his body, a hand catching his upper back to help him lay across the hard stone floor. He could feel his body trying to knit itself back together, something deep in his bones at war with the thing he'd been made into. The healing was failing. He would need Mundus' power to repair himself, wanted anything but. He reached out, caught the edge of a red coat. 

"Dan...te..."

It was a terrible sound. He could tell by the look on his brother's face, by the way it scratched at his own eardrums. When was the last time he'd used his voice? 

—recent. 

When was the last time he'd used it for _words?_

—unclear.

Dante turned, clasped his hand. "I'm coming back, Vergil. I'm not leaving you alone again."

Again.

_Again._

He would believe it, this time.

He would try.

He closed his eyes, and did not hear it when Dante left the room.

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to very quietly dedicate this to dondy and mof on twitter- their posts about nelo and dante hurt my heart and i love it ;v; idk if they'll see this but i'm too much of a coward to tag them for it.
> 
> anyway, any questions, comments, concerns, please feel free to leave them here or prod me on twitter @ [hardweeping](http://www.twitter.com/hardweeping)!


End file.
